When I set down to make a sketch from nature, the first thing Itry to do istoforgetthat Ihave ever seena picture.
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adamsat under theTree and scratched with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devilwhispered behind theleaves,'It'spretty, but is it Art?'
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